Dare to Hope
by Tarafina
Summary: Oliver Queen had lost his hope… and then a Christmas miracle went and brought it back.


**Title**: Dare to Hope  
**Category**: Smallville  
**Author**: sarcastic_fina  
**For**: tennysonslady - svgiftexchange  
**Genre**: Angst/Romance  
**Ship**: Chloe/Oliver  
**Rating**: PG13  
**Warning(s)**: Disregards 10x11 – Icarus ; spoilers for the rest of season 10 and the end of season 9  
**Word Count**: 10,077  
**Summary**: Oliver Queen had lost his hope… and then a Christmas miracle went and brought it back.

**_Dare to Hope_**  
-1/1-

Oliver Queen had lost his hope.

Standing atop the roof of the Daily Planet, the spinning golden globe behind him, he looked out across the city and knew two things. One – the people out there knew who he was; behind the green leather, the bow and arrows, the voice distorter. He'd outed himself and allowed the world amass know that it was he, billionaire CEO of Queen Industries, who gallivanted around each night as the vigilante hero in green. It was his own decision and so there was no one to blame, but he knew now that patrolling was harder. There was no more mystery to him but a human being that wasn't always as scary as the cunning Green Arrow. To some, he was even just the rich boy with an ego so large he had to find other ways to get his praise. The heroics of his job were little in comparison to the flawed person they knew him to be and couldn't help throwing in his face.

Was it a mistake to stand in front of all too many cameras and tell them his true identity? Probably. When he thought back on it now, he could see the holes in his plan. He'd been idealistic at the time, overwhelmed and lonely and at a loss for how to get her back. And didn't it always seem to come back to her somehow? So many of his darkest moments had her there, either picking him up or watching over him to keep him from the train wreck he was so hell-bent on making of himself. Or trading herself for him and disappearing out of his life, little trace to tell him she'd been there at all. Except for the scars on his heart, on his mind, and the aching loss that settled on his shoulders so heavily he sometimes wondered how he got up at all these mornings.

Two months and twenty five days. How long it'd been since he was traded; his life for hers; his freedom for hers. How long since he appeared back home, barefoot and broken but triumphant because he'd said nothing, revealed nothing, because he'd beat them at their scare tactics and their terrorism. Only to walk into his apartment and find… _nothing_. No Chloe, no _There you are! You're okay! I was so worried! _No worried friends or compassionate understanding. An empty apartment, hollow and bereft of the warmth he'd grown so accustomed to of late. Because she was there, because her laughter had filled the corners of his apartment and made the walls themselves shift, widening, giving life to a place that was once just there for show. For all its modern furniture and top of the line designer atmosphere, it was the woman he'd come to love that had made it _home_.

And she was gone.

Even when she undoubtedly escaped Rick Flagg and his Suicide Squad. Even when she knocked back the antidote to the cyanide pill she'd taken when she decided her life was worth less than his. Even when she faked her death for the nth time and could have returned to him.

She was gone.

And he had held out hope. He'd kept the antidote bottle in his pocket every single day; fingering it for proof that she was out there somewhere, alive. It sparked something in his chest each time, it let him know that she didn't go into this without thinking it through; she had a plan. Chloe Sullivan _always _had a plan. And while he had hoped that it entailed coming back to him, he'd yet to see any sign of that. Even when he broadcast to the world that he had a leather fetish, she was nowhere to be found. No phone call, no email, no text calling him the worst of secret keepers.

And so he waited.

For a sign, a phone call, a _smoke signal_, even. But there was nothing. To the world at large, on paper or otherwise, Chloe Sullivan had never existed. And after two months and twenty five days, he was beginning to question her existence himself. Because he looked back, he remembered their time together; from target practice to the kind of kiss that smoldered, warming his body from the inside out, to weekend getaways and matching plaid robes, to making love until all hours of the day and feeling the hum of energy, of full and complete satisfaction, in the stretch of her body against his. Green eyes staring up at him, so mischievous and thoughtful and deep that he sometimes wondered how in the hell he managed to get her into his life for any amount of time. And then the curve of her lips, a smile like she knew exactly what he was thinking and could answer with nothing but a kiss, warm and wet and lingering enough that his thoughts jumbled and there was only her and silky skin and a bed made for spreading out and rolling and spending hours of just touching and kissing and exploring.

On December 20th, the last Monday before Christmas, Oliver Queen stared out at the city as snow began to fall, to fill the streets with its white blanket. He stared and he wondered if it was snowing where she was, if she would even celebrate the holidays this year, if she had _anyone _to share it with. And then he realized that he didn't. AC was with Mera, Clark would be with Lois, Bart, Carter, Dinah and Courtney were all in the same hero game and couldn't risk being seen with him without being outed as vigilante affiliates. So Oliver Queen was alone, again, and the only person he wanted to spend this time with was missing, presumed dead by most, and with only five days left before the ultimate day of the season, the light he'd fed so heartily, that he'd stoked and reaffirmed daily, dimmed.

He drew out the whiskey brown bottle that once held the only proof of her existence; of her life beyond the death Rick Flagg had toted. He stared down at in his fingers as the chill began to burn his bare arms. And his logical mind told him that the Chloe Sullivan he'd loved, who spent endless mornings wrapped in his arms, pressing kisses to his chest and tracing scars with her deft fingers, wouldn't have left him to wonder about her life this long. He told himself that she was gone, that she had died and the antidote had failed her, that the world had lost the last good thing in it. And he let that bottle fall, drifting seemingly weightless through the snowy air as it fell toward the pavement below before crashing, shattering, shards spreading across the cement before they were covered and hidden by the white snow that thickened with each passing second.

He stared and he waited but nothing changed.

She was gone.

He was alone.

And his hope was lost.

…

Whether it was fate's intervention or his mind playing tricks he couldn't say.

The morning of the 21st, Oliver Queen walked into his office like he did everyday. He briefly greeted his secretary, who still looked at him a little perplexedly since he'd revealed his alter-ego, as if she wasn't quite sure what she should call him or how to under the complex nature of her boss. Wearing one of his favorite suits with one noticeable difference in way of a complete absence of green anywhere on his person, Oliver made his way inside the open landscape of his office and closed the frosted doors. He walked toward his desk already mentally going through his schedule – he had two meetings, three semi-urgent international phone calls to make, and an ex-girlfriend to abate, all before lunch.

Lois Lane was, he imagined, the kind of friend that came to her own conclusions about your health, mental or otherwise, and then decided how best to _fix _you. Apparently, since the moment he revealed his Green Arrow visage to the world and admitted that Chloe was not on vacation, Lois had decided it was her job to make sure he didn't do anything stupid or drastic or so like the Oliver he was before Chloe had kicked him in the ass via Roulette and her nasty game of self-introspection. Which meant that she called often, daily, and wanted an up to date recollection of everything he'd done, thought, or said and if she didn't like it, she demanded it change. It wasn't something Oliver looked forward to; in fact, it reminded him entirely too much of a nanny he once had as a child who liked to scold him when he did anything she didn't deem right or proper. Given his high hopes that Chloe would return, Oliver had been practicing good behavior, trying to be strong and keep the belief that she was okay strong. But since last night, even he had begun to wonder if the decanter of aged whiskey sitting on the table across from him wouldn't be a better answer to the situation at hand. Getting himself drunk and allowing it to wash away the pain seemed like a good idea, one he'd given into entirely too many times in his life.

He wouldn't do that now, however. And he wondered if it was because he'd grown and changed or if because to do so would only tarnish the memory he had of her and how she'd helped him heal without any alcoholic substances whatsoever. Regardless, he left the whiskey where it was and continued to his desk. That day might have been like any other if it weren't for one very important difference.

His chess board was out.

The one he kept specifically closed and locked away as it was a prized possession of his father's and Oliver hadn't wanted anything to happen to it. He came to a very sudden halt, his heart pounding in his ears, his brows furrowed. Detouring, he walked to the board with a rigid spine, questioning what it meant. The board was in pristine condition, the wood box it was usually housed in was set up like a table, the board set on top of it with each piece standing in its designated place. And then Oliver's heart leapt into his throat. The one piece that was meant to be missing, the ivory queen he'd given to her what seemed so long ago, stood tall and certain on amongst its peers.

He reached for it almost hesitantly, worrying for a moment, rather ridiculously, that it might disappear entirely from his grasp. But then his index finger touched the top corner of her crown and he felt a whoosh of breath exit his lungs almost painfully. He hadn't realized he'd been holding his breath until that very moment. Moisture, burning, gathered in his eyes and he knelt then, staring at the board, his mind moving a mile a minute, trying to understanding, to make some sense of what this all meant. Was it a sign? A trick? False hope? Because while his queen had been returned to him, it wasn't the woman he'd wanted. Still, he grabbed it, wrapping it in his palm, so tight he could feel the indentations throbbing against his skin. He stepped back from the board and he wondered, his chest thumping hard.

A spark, tiny, almost involuntary, flared up in him.

Hope? He couldn't say. Wasn't sure he even wanted to. The truth of the matter was that she was still missing, still lost, and he stood in an empty office with nothing but a memory to hold on to.

It wasn't enough.

…

That afternoon, a harried and distracted Oliver was avoiding the third call from one Lois Lane. He'd already dealt with two pissed off corporate assholes overseas, ate an unsatisfying lunch, gone through two painfully boring meetings while dodging the curious looks of business partners all wondering about his leathered alter-ego, and couldn't stop thinking about the chess piece currently taking up residence in his pant's pocket.

"Mr. Queen, an urgent package has arrived for you," his secretary buzzed him.

"Bring it in, please," he replied absently.

He wasn't expecting anything but it wouldn't be the first time he'd had gift baskets or the required holiday gift sent to him at work. His secretary brought in a dark green box and placed it carefully on his desktop, looking curious but abashed for wondering, and then turned and made her leave. Oliver stared at it a moment; there was no tag to say who it was from and most of his business partners had sent baskets, some with garish bows and smelly cheeses. He wondered for a moment if it might be a bomb – wouldn't be the first time – and didn't apologize for leaning forward as it to hear the imminent ticking. Hearing none, he finally reached for the sides, popping the top of and dropping it out of the way. Reaching through the mint colored tissue, his fingers searched out his gift before stilling as they found glass. A long cylindrical bottle appeared as he drew it from its bed of green tissue paper. Single malt scotch, and in his favorite brand.

His mind immediately brought him back to the last place he'd had a taste and a warmth filled him from the tips of his fingers to the ends of his toes.

_The thwack of the arrow hitting its intended position startled her as she took two steps from the door she'd entered through. Oliver half-smiled as she lifted a hand to her stomach as if to keep it from twisting with her flight or fight instinct. Recognizing the arrow, its target, and its shooter, her mouth curved in a smile and she relaxed immediately, turning to look at him as she undid the belt of her jacket. "Slow night?" she asked, cocking her head slightly._

_Drawing another arrow out, he answered, "Figured I'd squeeze in some target practice…" He placed the arrow on his bow and looked back at the bottle sitting near the table, "And a single malt."_

_Parting her jacket, she walked further into the room, her heels clacking against the floor and her hips swaying enticingly. "You bring enough for the rest of the class?"_

_He stared a moment at the green silk of her shirt before answering, "Help yourself, Professor."_

_She stopped at the table, jacket tossed over her arm, and gathered up the bottle and a glass for herself._

_"Running a little light on allegory tonight," he said, brows scrunched up as he raised his bow and aimed easily. Releasing the arrow, watching as it sunk into the target board exactly where it was meant to, he asked, "Bumpy day?" _

_Taking a seat on the couch behind him, she dropped the bottle to the table and admitted, "Not the smoothest."_

_Oliver fiddled with his bow, listening to her as she added, "Someone asked me when the last time I had a good time was and…"_

_He looked up suddenly, not sure if he liked the sound of what was implied. Was it completely ridiculous that the idea of a 'good time' and Chloe brought his mind entirely too close to the gutters? The strange feeling in his chest, a clenching, was too close to jealousy for his liking. _

_"I didn't have an answer."_

_His eyes fell; he wasn't sure if that was sad or reassuring. Sad for her, yes; if anybody deserved to have a little light hearted fun in their lives, it was definitely the blonde behind him. Reassuring because he was fairly certain he didn't want anybody else to have that fun with her but him. Which was why he was here, again, invading her personal haven in hopes that she would be there, willing to spend a little time with him. _

_He turned back toward her, staring at her over his shoulder a minute._

_She lifted her glass, looking tired, defeated even, and he felt the pressure in his chest ease. Who was he to be jealous of whoever provided fun in her life? She deserved it. But with the lives they lived, it didn't come easy. In fact, all too often it seemed out of reach. Thoughtfully, he watched her drink her scotch and then said, "I don't think anyone can fault you for being on edge, Chloe." He looked back down at his bow and returned his gaze to the target across the room. "I mean hell, if anyone can relate, it's me. I get it."_

_She breathed out a brief, agreeable hum. "Yeah, you can."_

_"Y'know…" He lifted his bow, grinning ever so slightly to himself, "Sometimes you have to take your fun where you can get it…" And hadn't he done that all too many times in his life? That brief, senseless, over-too-quick _fun_ that felt hollow as soon as it was gone. _

_He released an arrow and then turned to retrieve another. "And _sometimes_…" He stared down, suddenly feeling something akin to vulnerability. "It's right in front of your face…" His brows spiked meaningfully. He inhaled deeply, even sharply, before turning to look at her, his eyes wide and firm and meeting hers with all the naked truth he had. "You just have to wanna see it."_

_She stared up at him, her eyes softer than he could ever remember, and her mouth quirked at the corners briefly. _

_He grinned, unreasonably proud of himself for getting even the smallest of smiles from her. He quirked his head. "Come on…" And he thought he might've meant more than just _'Come here' _when his smile fled and seriousness replaced it. _

_She watched him as she downed a little more of her drink and then dropped the glass with a purposeful thud to the table, as if it were the mallet of a judge making her final decision. Finally, she rose from her seat, circling the table, and crossed the space between them. She reached knowingly and he handed her his bow, keeping one hand on hers as she gripped it tight and brought it to chest level. He slid up behind her, his other hand reaching for her elbow and skimming lightly down her forearm. He looked down at her, at the halo of soft blonde hair that smelled entirely too good, and then he pressed up close and stared at the target aligned with them. _

_"How do I know when to let go?" she asked, her voice low, quiet, almost whispery._

_He slid his fingers along hers at the grip, feeling them flex and tighten beneath his. "It's all about your heart," he replied in a raspy tone he couldn't help._

_She turned slightly, eyeing his hand as it swept along hers were she held the end of the arrow at the string of the bow. _

_"Just listen…" His fingers strummed along her much smaller, softer ones. "Right there between the beats…" _

_She looked back at the target and then returned her gaze to their hands._

_"And that's when you let go…"_

_He heard her swallow, thick and tight, and he let his hand fall away from her, letting her make her decision, letting her decide what all of this meant._

_And then she released, she let go, and he watched in surprised awe as her arrow hit center with the target, aligned with the many he'd shot himself. His chest lurched, pride and appreciation making him grin. She turned in his arms then, her green eyes shining brightly, and smiled up at him in a way that suddenly made the rest of the room, the rest of the world, fade away entirely. And things weren't so black and white then, weren't just bows and arrows and fun. There was a woman in front of him that he'd grown to admire in ways he never had before. The carefree smile of before had faded into a look of understanding and he stared at her then like he'd never quite seen anything quite so incredible. In all ways; _every _way. Her own smile faded, her eyes fluttering, blinking quickly as if she couldn't believe this was happening, that he was there in front of her. _

_His hand rose, fingers threading in her hair, thumb stroking the curve of her soft cheek. She rose up on her tip-toes and he leaned forward, eyes falling closed as soon as her lips met his. Her hand slid up his neck into his hair, firmly drawing him in; as if he'd even think to pull away. Lips parted, it was the heat of tongues meeting immediately on impact, the taste of expensive scotch and something uniquely Chloe spread across his taste buds. His arms wrapped around her, every muscle in his body tightening in response as her soft, pliant body met his own, coming together like matching puzzle pieces. There was no regret or hesitancy or lingering questions; for that moment, Chloe Sullivan was Oliver Queen's and he could quite honestly say that from that moment on, he would always be hers_.

Oliver came back to the present with a jolt.

He swallowed tightly, staring at the bottle with the kind of reverence alcohol should probably never encourage.

That was the beginning of… _everything_. Of something that was never meant to be more than just stringless nights of passion. And he'd known from the moment she turned in his arms and looked up at him, like a proud pupil that had just accomplished something so vast, that Chloe Sullivan was one of a kind and he wasn't going to let that go. He walked into their non-relationship knowing that she wasn't ready for anything more than 'fun,' even while he was certain that he could change her mind, that there would be more eventually. And there was; that was _so much _more. Unfortunately, when they finally both admitted to it, he was kidnapped for information and a very disappointing 'join our team' rendition before the big trade that would end it all.

In the grand scheme, he almost found it lackluster.

Sometime during the seven months he'd been with Chloe, he'd decided that if anything broke them up outside of her emotional barriers it would be explosive; world-ending; like dying under a hail of gunfire while he made sure she got away, safe and alive. For some reason, and he was sure it had something to do with his ego, he figured he would save her. Not the other way around. Not in the way that meant he wound up alone, again. And maybe there was even a Romeo-and-Juliet-esque thought process going on when he even pondered the idea of them going down together. But walking away from disaster and having no idea where she was or why she wasn't with him, that definitely wasn't in his ten year plan.

Like the chess piece, he wondered if this was another sign; if it was her or just him reading into things too much. He placed it at the corner of his desk and stared at it. Hand sinking into his pocket, he fingered the chess piece much like he had the antidote vial, and then he leaned back in his chair and asked himself if a man without hope could contemplate something as trivial as a bottle of scotch this much.

…

As he had every night of the last two months and twenty-six days, Oliver left work alone, went home alone, shed his clothes and showered and ate and stared out at the frosty winter-scene of Metropolis _alone_. He had the bottle of scotch and ivory queen to keep him company, but they weren't exactly warm and willing bed partners. He'd sworn off drinking alone some time ago and was sure it was better for him, even if the ache that seemed to shadow him these days was just begging for something to make it ebb.

He didn't patrol that night.

He left his gear packed away in his hidden room and instead went to bed, feeling both mentally and physically exhausted. He laid back in the bed that never seemed so big before, telling himself it wasn't completely pathetic that he only occupied the left side knowing full well she liked the right. She wasn't about to miraculously materialize, no matter how much he wished she would. He turned then, because thinking of her in bed almost always ended with him looking at the picture he had of her sitting upright against his lamp. The one he'd taken some months ago, when her hair was tousled and her face was laced with the remnants of sleep, and there was nothing but a sheet to provide modesty. The picture he'd found in her apartment shortly after finding out from Flagg that she was dead, imbibing a cyanide pill to ensure she wouldn't say anything that might hurt the team. The picture that looked almost dream-like with her picturesquely staring back at him with a faint smile. But the picture wasn't there.

A thump hit his chest painfully and his eyes widened, searching to and fro, as if he expected it to appear suddenly from thin air. He threw the blanket off and turned, sitting up in the bed, his legs falling over the side. His mind whirled with questions and possibilities; where would she, if it was in fact _her_, put it? He'd found it the first time because she'd known it would draw his attention, behind it was the clue. He walked out of his room, walking quickly across the apartment and then slowing down, his eyes darting, searching, for where she might have—

And then he spotted it. On his desk, right next to the picture of him and his parents in front of the Queen Industries yacht. He hurried to it, his stomach twisting and turning, wondering what clue he might find now. The last one was somehow both reassuring and disturbing. Wasn't every day he found out his girlfriend had taken cyanide, antidote or not. He reached for the picture, his shaking fingers picking it up. And behind it there was a box. White, rectangular, simple. He picked it up and stared a moment. The anticipation made his blood rush, his stomach flip-flop, before finally he raised the top of the box and stared down inside.

A spoon. Sterling silver, the bowl of the spoon featured oranges and orange blossoms embossed into it while the stem read CALIFORNIA. His home state. And tied around it was a green ribbon. He grinned.

_She backed into the bedroom giggling; for all of the tension in the lower half of the McDougall Inn, all of which was centered around the other couple they hadn't expected to see on their mini-vacation, the time spent with Chloe was still lighthearted. She tugged him along with her by the hand, pausing to grin up at him._

_Sliding in close, he wrapped an arm around her waist and twirled her, his hands spreading along her back._

_"I must say, your taste in wine is _almost_ as good as your taste in women," she told him._

_"Thank you." He lifted a hand and tapped his finger against the corner of her mouth. "You have a little bit of Pinot actually, right there." He ducked his head, lips meeting hers in a good. "Look at that, I got it!" As she laughed, her hand running up his shoulder, he kissed down her neck. _

_Stilling suddenly, she cleared her throat. "Um… Unless Christmas came early, that _better not _have my name on it."_

_Standing straight, he looked back at the bed where she was staring firmly, though her arms were still wrapped around him._

_"Oh, well," He drew back, squeezing her hands before he reached for the rectangular box sitting on the bedspread. "Maybe you've just been especially good this year." Keeping her hands in one of his, he held the box in the other, looking from it to her rather nervously. "Maybe… a guy shouldn't take someone like you for granted."_

_She stared up at him, her eyes wide and almost… sad. "I didn't think you were, Ollie," she murmured. She took the box from him, a powder blue, and turned it over slowly, spotting the McDougal Inn sticker on the back. _

_He grinned, waiting for her to open it._

_Instead, she frowned knowingly, lifting her eyes. "Clark said something, didn't he?"_

_He raised a brow. "It's just a gift," he promised._

_"No!" She shook her head. "No, no, no, **no**." She lifted the gift and stepped away, past him. "It's a slippery-slope." She put the box on the bed and inhaled deeply. "Just because gifts are **never **'just because.'" She whirled around to face him and his confused expression. "There's always some unspoken part like 'I'm _sorry_,' or 'I feel very strongly about you,' both of which are **complicated**!" _

_His face fell. Even though he'd known, while buying it, that it was taking a very large step, he'd hoped her reaction would be different. But her 'let's not rock the boat attitude' really hadn't changed. If anything, it was getting stricter. And now he was wondering if she might just call the whole thing off. His stomach dropped. He shook his head, ready to argue in favor of 'them' in whatever capacity she would take._

_"Oliver, I wanted to keep things simple, you know?" Her face screwed up as she shook her head. "No strings o-or ribbons." She turned, grabbed up her jacket quickly and hurried toward the door._

_"W-Wait! Wh-Where are you going?" he stuttered, startled by her departure. _

_"I'm going for a walk," she said, turning back to him as she stood in the doorway._

_His mouth pursed, the question of 'why?' lingering but unspoken._

_"When I get back, can we just hit the reset button and play our favorite indoor game again?" she asked with purpose before raising a brow and walking away._

_Swallowing tightly, he watched her leave before his hands fell uselessly to his sides and he sighed, feeling an acute loss_.

So if ribbons and gifts were complicated, if they were a slippery-slope toward a committed relationship, then her giving him this meant something, right? Because nobody else was in that room but them, nobody else knew the intricacies of their non-relationship but them. The meaning behind this was too profound to be anybody _but _Chloe.

He took the picture and the spoon and he walked back to bed. He placed them on his bedside table and then he found his pants and he dug around in the pocket for the chess piece before adding it too to his collection of reminders. And then he laid back on his bed, crossing his arms behind his bed, and stared at the ceiling, wondering…

What did it all mean?

…

The next morning, Oliver woke up late. He blamed it on the fact that he'd had a terrible sleep, tossing and turning and his mind too cluttered with questions and worries and arguments. He got into work and received the first annoyed expression from his secretary in months. Apparently it was regular Oliver who was late, not the illusive and even mysterious Green Arrow. He couldn't help but be glad she wasn't looking at him differently any longer. He had a meeting in ten minutes, one he wasn't sure he was prepared for, but he went in and put on a good show of looking like he knew what was going on. Three hours later, he was sitting back at his desk and seriously contemplating the single malt scotch he'd received but then remembered it was back at home.

With a sigh, he leaned back in his chair and frowned. For the last few days before Christmas, he wasn't feeling so cheerful. Exhausted, overworked and lonely, yes. He was fairly sure a long vacation on a beach would be warranted right now. Instead, he had paperwork and phone calls and an empty stomach to contend with.

The buzz of the intercom interrupted his thoughts.

"Mr. Queen, you have another package."

Oliver sat forward quickly, heart beating faster. There was no reason to assume it was from her except that the last few surprises had been right up her alley. "Bring it in," he asked, trying to stop fidgeting with anticipation.

When she stepped inside with a gift basket, his face fell. Not what he'd been expecting, or hoped for.

She placed it on the desk in front of him. "There was a card, something about Mr. and Mrs. Green. I'm not aware of who they are. I checked your contacts database and we don't have them on file, so—"

"Repeat that," he said, shaking his head.

"I checked your contacts—"

"No, who was it from?" he interrupted quickly.

"A Mr. and Mrs. Green," she replied skeptically, staring at him a little worriedly. "Should I call security?" She took a step back. "Should I be ducking and covering?" She eyed the package worriedly.

He grinned slowly. "No." Standing, he reached for the green ribbon that held the plastic wrap tight around it and untied it quickly, reaching inside for the contents.

One by one, he started taking things out. Shower gel. A loofa. A shaving kit. Massage oil. Monogrammed bathrobes with a Q insignia. And one green bath mat.

_They were standing on the porch of McDougal Inn, the truth of his anticlimactic spoon gift now freely out there in the open, and they'd crossed to stand just feet from each other._ "_For future reference, and y'know, strictly for environmental purposes… The next time you want to take a shower with someone," he laughed slightly, "Chloe, you can ask **me**…" Maybe it was a little bit of jealousy, of hope, but he wanted her to take him, and only him, up on that. _

"A His and Her shower kit?" his secretary questioned, lips pursed slightly. "Unexpected."

He laughed under his breath. "A very good adjective for her." He looked back up at his curious secretary and smiled briefly. "Thank you."

Knowing a dismissal when she heard it, she nodded before turning on her heel and leaving him to his business.

Oliver sat back in his chair and shook his head, a smile tugging at the corner of his lips.

Unexpected, yes… but not unwanted.

…

The day only went downhill from there. In fact, the only highlight seemed to be her gift. He got home late, feeling tense and more tired than ever, and his stomach grumbling. As tired as he was, he couldn't imagine doing anything in the kitchen and he pondered what restaurants might be open this late and willing to deliver. Just then there was buzzing in the front foyer to let him know the elevator had arrived. His stomach flipped over and he ran back toward the entrance.

Was it foolish to want her to be there? Was it _hopeful? _

It wasn't her. There was a man with a brown bag in hand, fidgeting and bobbing his head to whatever was coming out of the earbuds he had in.

Releasing the elevator door, he stepped over to see who it was.

The guy looked up, a teenager with a new license and his first job, Oliver assumed. He handed over the brown bag. "Good eating, man," he said, before reaching over and pressing the button to get the elevator to go down.

Oliver stared down at the bag in hand, frowning.

Thai Palace, the receipt read, Pre-Paid – Peanut Allergy!

A memory sparked.

_Stuck in an air duct, drill in hand, working to get the satellite - which he'd had made specifically with her in mind - up and running, he raised the walkie-talkie to his mouth and said, "You know, ya gotta admit I know how to treat a girl on date night!"_

_He could practically hear her grin as she replied, "Sure, next weekend you think we could maybe just grab some Thai food and catch a movie?"_

_Dragging the slotted cover out of the way, he looked inside to the wires beyond. "Sounds like a good plan, but for tonight you're gonna have to settle for streamed satellite video.._." _He reached inside to plug in a few wires._

_"Hey! The link is up!" she cried excitedly. "Why don't you make your way home?" Nothing ever sounded so good._

Of course, that was the night it all changed. The time Flagg and his Squad had captured him and he never made it home to her. And later, when he finally did get back to the apartment, she wasn't there. So their date of Thai food had never come to fruition. His throat tightened, stomach rumbled, and he stepped back inside his apartment. When he finally sat down at the empty kitchen table, one plate in hand, he dug out each container and set it all up. The extra spring rolls on the bottom of the bag made him smile; she knew him so well. In fact, she'd have had to keep an eye on him and call just as he was leaving work to make sure the food arrived on time. In a weird way it was incredibly thoughtful of her.

But while he sat there at his table, every other seat without a person to fill it, the apartment itself so very hollow, he couldn't help but think that while the gesture was nice, it wasn't what he wanted.

It still wasn't her.

…

It was the 23rd of December, which meant that everybody wanted out of work. His secretary was getting antsy, wondering if she'd picked up all her gifts and would be able to make her flight in time to visit family in Connecticut. Most of his business partners were tying up loose ends so they could spend Christmas Eve and Christmas at home with their families. Lois had already called three times to try and convince him spending the holiday with her and Clark would be a good idea. He was still pretty sure she was very, very wrong.

The doors to his office burst open and his secretary walked hurriedly to his desk. She hadn't even bothered to warn him, instead dropping the box and shrugging apologetically before she touched her blutooth. "No, mom, I told you… I hate yams." She smiled lopsidedly at Oliver in a 'What can you do?' way and he simply waved her off, back to her phone call.

Staring at the white box, he frowned. Opening it meant he was going along with her game, letting himself be sucked in, letting his hope get bigger and brighter, and hadn't he let go of this because it was an endless and lonely question of "Where is she? Will she ever return?"

His fingers itched however and while curiosity had always bitten Chloe far worse, he couldn't help himself. Popping the top off the box, he reached inside and found… a card.

It was simple, stating _Happy Belated Birthday_ and signed_ Professor. _

Beneath it was a _sweater_. Fern green, lightweight silk knit, v-neck, with long sleeves.

A half-smile found his mouth and he shook his head, laughing under his breath.

_Chloe ran toward her computer screens, all of them devoid of picture except for buzzing snow. "We lost all satellite communication, I can't reach anybody…" She turned around, seeing yet another lost feed, and threw her hands up in frustration. "It's like _everyone_ I sent out there is a sitting duck and Zod's about to call a start to hunting season." She turned around to look at him, angry, and then stomped away from her computers._

_Brows furrowed, he followed her with his eyes. "Take a breath Chloe…" He followed after her to yet another computer set-up. "You've stared down the barrel of a gun before."_

_She whirled around, walking backwards toward a desk. "We're dealing with like a _hundred_ Clark's here!" She started tossing things into a box. "I don't know if I can dodge this speeding bullet."_

_"Well you're not in it alone," he reassured calmly. "We're a team, right? You got me." When her tossing of things only hurried up, he reached out and took her arms into his hands gently, drawing her eyes up to his. "Hey…" He shook his head. "Trust me."_

_After sighing, she smiled up at him. "Thank you." Brows furrowed, unconvinced, she told him, "But I don't think you talking me of a ledge is gonna help us solve our technical difficulties." Grabbing up her box, she started moving again. _

_"Okay, uh, then maybe this will…" He grabbed up the lid of her box that she dropped and followed behind her to another desk. "You know when Tess broke into our little clubhouse here? Well I had Queen Industries launch an orbiter dedicated _to _Watchtower…" Smugly, he dropped the lid on top of her box._

_Chloe paused, head lifting. She raised her hands into the air, fingers pointing with excitement. "Wait a minute…" Eyes wide, she turned around to face him and narrowed her gaze. "We have our own _satellite?_"_

_Hands crossed behind his back, he nodded. "Yeah."_

_"Why didn't you tell me this before?" she demanded, eyes rounding._

_"Well, it was sort've a gift…" he said, grinning, proud of himself._

_She smiled. Blinking her eyes rapidly, she shrugged her shoulder. "Uh, well I guess giving you a sweater for your birthday is out of the question now…" She laughed breathlessly, staring up at him. _

_He stared back at a moment, his chest thumping at the expression of bright appreciation in her eyes. Why did he suddenly feel like a satellite was a ring and she'd said yes? Before he could follow that line of thinking too much, he cleared his throat and got back to business…_

It was like every important moment or conversation was being thrust into his hands, into his life, in just a few short days. Like she was telling him without words, without her there in person, that she was always there, that she remembered what they had, that she never forgot or misinterpreted or underappreciated anything.

Emotion clogged his throat.

Because yes, now he knew. Chloe Sullivan was very alive and she was out there, very likely in Metropolis that very moment, but she still wasn't within reach.

It didn't stop him from tossing his Armani shirt and jacket off in favor of his new sweater. And when he leaned back in his chair, his phone ringing loudly and going ignored, he relaxed and smiled and felt more at ease than he had in nearly three months. When his secretary came in to see what the problem was, he sent her home early with a Christmas bonus and an order to have a nice, long holiday. Then he unplugged his phone and he prayed for one last Christmas miracle.

…

On Christmas Eve, Oliver Queen received a phone call from every one of his friends. From Impulse to _Big Bird_, he wished a happy holiday to his teammates, his friends, his ex-girlfriend, and the handful of people in the entire world that even cared what he was doing.

There was no tree in his living room, no stockings hung with care, no yule tide carols or presents to be opened. There was no eggnog in his fridge or Christmas parties to attend, no chestnuts roasting on an open fire. There was leftover Thai food in the fridge – enough for _two_, he thought sadly – and a bottle of scotch still unopened. As the day drew dark while he avoided Christmas movies in favor of any non-holiday-related TV, he watched the sun set over the buildings around him and the snow as it filled the sky.

The buzz of the elevator made every muscle in his body tense. It could be Lois, the guys, any number of people, and he didn't want to get his hopes up like he had when the Thai delivery kid had arrived. Climbing off the couch, stretching his unused limbs, he crossed the apartment and stared at the video feed, at the man waiting in his elevator with yet another package. And finally, he pressed the button to release the door.

The man was dressed in a UPS outfit and had a clipboard and paper for him to sign. "Oliver Queen?" he asked.

Oliver nodded shortly, accepting the package thrust into his hands before he signed for it and within just moments was walking back to his desk as the UPS delivery man had taken the elevator back down the building.

Opening the box without preamble, he pulled another one from inside.

_Custom Puzzles_ the top read and his brow furrowed wonderingly. He popped open the lid and turned it over. Pieces littered the top of his neck, of all shapes and sizes. Getting to work, he started putting it together, snorting to himself as he realized that Oliver Queen, once known as the ultimate catch and bachelor, was putting together a _puzzle _on Christmas Eve. It took him an hour to put it all together; it wasn't a very large puzzle but it was intricate; as if he could expect anything less. When it was finished, the center was missing, on purpose. Put together the picture made a dark, starry sky with a large satellite and in the very center was a cutout of a _star_…

Brows furrowed, he thought back to the spoon. _California_. And now this…

He shook his head. It was a long-shot and there was a chance he was jumping to conclusions, but…

He had his jet fueled immediately and was on his way to Star City, California in no time at all.

Despite his best efforts, Oliver was hoping, _desperately_…

…

Star City was by no means a small place. With a suspension bridge, the Grell Museum and Papp Stadium as just a few of the local landmarks, the city boasted five million people and counting. Which meant that he had a lot of surface to cover and very few leads. During their relationship, Chloe and Oliver hadn't ventured far outside of Metropolis. Besides the McDougal Inn, they'd spent most of their time between his apartment, the watchtower, and surrounding city landscape. But she'd known where he hailed from, of his childhood and his home; he'd shared memories with her about life before his parents had been killed and dreams that one day he might be able to recreate that same kind of family atmosphere.

That was what brought him here, _home_, to the Queen Manor. Where once the fields on either side of the tall, white marble house were lush with green grass, now they were dead and withered, patches of dirt showing through. Snow hadn't fallen here, blanketing it like Metropolis. The landscape was almost barren and so very opposite of what he remembered. The giant apple tree he'd climbed, and fallen from, all too often as a child was missing, a stump in its place, and the windows of his childhood home were broken in some places, boarded in others. It was something his mother would no doubt cry over and he felt a tug at his heart. He'd avoided this place since he was eighteen and able to strike out on his own.

Parking the car, he stepped out and stared up at the tall front entrance. He used to run out those doors and jump into his dad's arms every day when he returned from work. He used to stare out the windows of the living room for hours on end, waiting and wishing and hoping to see the car pull down the driveway. His eyes darted to the familiar window, which is when he saw the light. A flicker, not a lamp but of a fire burning.

His heart leapt up into his throat.

Either he'd go inside to find squatters and have his hopes dashed yet again, or…

He hurried inside, even as his hands shook and his logical mind argued with him every step. He pushed open the doors and heard the hinges squeak in protest. Dust kicked up and the hallways seemed to echo as he crept through slowly, his every step sounding like a heavy thump. He let the door fall closed behind him and walked further inside, staring at the now broken and unused stairs where once the polished banister had served as his slide. Feelings of regret welled inside him and he turned away, catching the flicker of fire bouncing along the walls once more.

He walked toward it, wondering what he might see as he turned the corner. On Christmas Eve, as a kid, he'd have found a tree decorated to the nines, so tall it was like three of his dad's stacked one on top of the other. They had to use a ladder to get it all decorated with stands of popcorn and cranberries his mom and his nanny strung themselves. There would be gifts piled beneath the branches and decorations all over, lining walls and shelves and embodying the Christmas spirit in every nook and cranny. The scent of his mom's baked goods would fill the air and cookies and desserts would fill plates all over. He hadn't had a Christmas like that in over fifteen years.

When he turned the corner, he was waiting to feel disappointment; to see the peeled paint and the dusty furniture, no parents or nanny or Christmas cheer. Instead, he found a tree; much smaller than the one he'd had as a kid, but a bushy pine nonetheless. There were red and gold baubles, silver tinsel and white garland, and a lopsided angel perched on the top. The coffee table was moved, but its top had plates of sugar cookies and fruit cake and butter tarts that made his mouth water. There was a glass of eggnog with cinnamon sprinkled on top and a platter of cheeses, meats, and crackers, and lastly a bowl of mixed chocolates. He shook his head, his throat burning, and his eyes scanned the rest of the room. The fire burned warm, a thick plaid blanket tossed before it, and a bottle of Pinot chilling in a bucket of ice. He couldn't believe what he was seeing and for a moment even questioned his sanity.

Four days ago, he'd been done, finished, he was letting her go and accepting that what they had had been lost. And then… Then _this _happens and even with the evidence before him, he wasn't certain of the meaning. Because he had Christmas set up before him but the one thing he wanted most, the one _person _he needed, wasn't there in the center of it all. He wasn't sure if his heart was breaking or mending anymore.

"Not exactly the Christmas party you probably remember… especially since the house is empty besides us," her voice suddenly filled the room, calling out to him.

He whirled, found her standing there just feet behind him. He stared at her with wide, stunned eyes.

She wiped her hands on her jeans, looking around nervously. "The tree's a little crooked… You wouldn't _believe _how much harder it is to put one up on your own… And I took awhile to get it so it's probably not the most _attractive _tree you could get, but it has a certain Charlie Brown feel to it, I thought…" She chewed her lip. "The sugar cookies might be a little stale, too… I was in a hurry and packing everything from one place to the next was hectic… The stove here doesn't work, which I expected, but…" She sighed, pausing in her rambling to look up at him. "Say something… Ollie?"

"Where've you been?" he asked, his voice coming out in a hoarse rasp.

"In hiding, mostly…" She fiddled with her hands. "Nowhere near Metropolis until this last week…" She shook her head. "It was just safer that way."

His mouth opened, closed, no words escaping. There was really only one question that had been bothering him, plaguing him even. "_Why?_"

She stared at him, a certain level of knowing bright in her eyes. "Why'd I star or why'd I trade myself?"

His jaw tightened. "Both."

"Because I…" She shook her head, her eyes filling with tears. "I couldn't live in a world without you…" Her voice cracked and she turned away, as if the emotion hurt too much to show. "And when I woke up, when I got away, when it _worked_…" She licked her lips. "I knew that if they found out, they'd come looking for me."'

He stared at her angrily. "I could've kept you safe."

"And put you at risk again?" She turned back to him angrily. "After I'd just made sure they couldn't _hurt _you anymore? No!"

"Damn it, Chloe!" he yelled. "We were supposed to be a team! _Group decisions!_" He shook his head wildly. "You can't decide for us, for _me_, and _sacrifice _yourself!"

"The world needed Green Arrow," she argued logically, "_More _than it needed Watchtower!"

"Well I needed _you!_" Some part of him wanted to shake her, wanted to get her to see reason, but it'd been seven months of her not wanting to see what she could, what she _did_, mean to him. "Haven't you realized that by now?"

Her face fell, eyes darting to the floor. "Oliver…"

"You don't get to take it back," he told her, thinking back, remembering, how she'd said she loved him. The last words he'd heard from her before Flagg and his Squad had taken him away. "I spent seven months working my ass of to get you to open your eyes and when you _finally _do…" He laughed hollowly. "You disappear off the face of the earth with nothing but the promise that you loved me and an empty goodbye…" His jaw ticked, brows furrowed. "What was I supposed to do? You were just _gone!_"

"Fight…" she told him thickly. "_Survive_… Be the man, the _hero_, I always knew you were."

"Right…" He nodded sarcastically. "Work through the pain, shove it down, ignore it, because that worked out _so well _for you."

Chloe flinched. "Is it too much to ask that you see this from my point of view?"

He gave a short, caustic laugh. "That depends…" He stared at her, brow raised. "Is it coming from Watchtower or Chloe?" He cocked his head. "Because Tower is a tactician; she does things for the greater good of humanity…" His expression softened. "And Chloe is just a woman with a heart, trying desperately not to let it be broken."

She stared at him a long moment, before softly wondering, "I can't be both?"

His shoulders fell, anger fading, and he half-smiled. "I fell in love with both… I _lost _both…" He swallowed thickly. "But right now, all I want back is Chloe…" He shook his head meaningfully. "All that other stuff, the heroics and the reasons, and saving the world, it can _wait_… Because it's Christmas and the love of my life has finally come home…"

She smiled, watery and emotional. "I missed you," she breathed.

He grinned. "Not half as much as I missed you."

She rolled her eyes, lifting a hand to swipe at a tear. "It's not a competition, Ollie."

Reaching for her, he said, "If it were, I'd be winning."

With a grin, she stepped into his embrace, her arms sliding around his waist and squeezing. For a moment, she just leant her head against his chest, ear pressed to his heart, and his chin fell to the crown of her head, nestled in blonde curls. His arms wrapped tight around her, around the petite, curvy body that he'd missed so incredibly much. His hands slid up and down her back, fingers spread and reaching, almost as though he expected her to disappear any second. It could've been minutes or hours before he finally drew back a little to look down into her face.

She stared back up at him, the same bedroom eyes of the woman in the picture on his bedside table rather than the worried or brisk gaze of the team member he'd fallen for. This was just Chloe, the woman who loved tulips and almond mochas with extra whip, the woman who teased him about having a leather fetish but had no qualms about letting Green Arrow take her against the wall of his apartment or in his weapons room or across the mats of his exercise floor – now who had the fetish?

Stroking the hair back from her face, he let his fingertips dance down her cheek. Her expression softened, eyes falling to half-mass, and the light of the fire lit her up so ethereally. Ducking his head, he caught her lips and three months of missing her and worrying he might've lost her completely and fighting desperately to keep his hope from dying, it was all worth it. The taste of her, like flames licking across his skin, sent his heart soaring and his stomach flipping in the best of ways. He buried a hand at her neck and held on tight, feeling every muscle of his body as it tightened in response, on edge and anticipating every swipe of her tongue meeting his. Her nails scraped through his hair and down his neck as she slowed down, sipping at his lips.

"I'm not going anywhere," she murmured, as if she'd felt the desperation and the worry in him.

He pressed his forehead to hers. "I'm holding you to that."

She grinned.

Licking his lips, the taste of her lingering, he looked up and around the room, but didn't let his arms drop from around her. "Quite the Christmas present, Professor… Elaborate, intimate, reminiscent; you hit it out of the park."

She raised a brow. "This is just the set-up, hero… Me and my good friend Victoria's Secret have a much more _intimate_ evening planned, equipped with green lace and an in-depth welcome home…" Her eyes sparked and he felt it, like a heat that warmed his soul.

He stared at her a long moment, at the tilt of her lips, and he squeezed her close. "I love you," he said, staring thoughtfully into her eyes. "I've never loved anyone the way I've loved you and I _never _will again."

Her eyes widened, brightened, filling with tears. "_Oh_…" she murmured, voice cracking with emotion. She sniffed to cover it. "Repeating my words back to me, Queen, I think that might be some form of cheating."

He laughed, wiping her tears away as they escaped down her cheeks. "Took me seven months to get you to admit it, you think I won't use it against you the rest of your life?"

She smiled lightly. "I think I'd like that."

The old grandfather clock his father had favored rung loud then, letting them know midnight had found them.

And when she didn't disappear, didn't melt away from his arms, but continued to stand there, solid and real, he nodded. "Merry Christmas, Chloe."

Rising up on her tip-toes, she pecked his lips lingeringly. "Merry Christmas, Ollie."

There were no presents beneath the tree, wrapped in garish paper or filled with colorful tissue. There was no sound in the room but for the clicking of the clock and their breathing. This hadn't been his home in more than fifteen years and the people he'd come to think of as family were spread out across the world. But he had her and in her he had his hope; for himself and the world and humanity at large. That Christmas, with nothing to show for it but bits and pieces of their relationship, and the woman herself in his arms, Oliver Queen dubbed it the best he'd ever had. He had her back and though their life was anything but simpler for it, he wasn't going to let her go. When the holidays found their end, the world would return to its previous disorder and Green Arrow and Watchtower and their fellow heroes would have to save it, somehow. But for now, it was just them, just Oliver and Chloe and a Christmas for two.

"Did you make the butter tarts yourself?" he wondered, breaking the silence.

She laughed lightly. "I did."

And thus began their first of many Christmas feasts.

[**End**.]


End file.
